


Traveling Show

by RenrijraKrin



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 08:32:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14351787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenrijraKrin/pseuds/RenrijraKrin
Summary: What a good and seemly thing that cats are ever smiling.





	Traveling Show

Look, Caleb, we’ve got all the colours in the world, don’t we? A gang is only as good as it’s colours and I think we’ve gathered just the right ones for a masterpiece. Don’t you, Caleb? We’ve been having such hard times, Caleb, for such a long time, Caleb. There’s strength in numbers, you said? Well, will you look at us now. This is where the future lies, I’m sure, just a few friends with a wealth of secrets on the winding road strewn with opportunity and ash.

Watch little Yasha with her not so little blade, looking like a ghost walking, walking like a ghost looking, in from the fringes, pale glow fringed with darkness. Here’s hoping she’ll flicker back at the right time, flutter-falling to your rescue on what counts for wings these days, a free bird caged only by the blood that makes her wings go.

Regard Beau, blunt Beau, little boy never, free fist, false orphan. Ready to speak the world’s oldest language with all comers, be they fowl or fish, babe or elder. Take the offered hand, hammer, learn how they think, see how they sink, build their tower tall to knock and see it fall. All wisdom is worthless, know, let it wash off you like water off duck, pool round your feet as mirror, show them their reflection on the way down, teach them the extent of folly.

See Molly, the devil lonesome, soft-heart, silent talker, wind-walker. Tip your wings but not your cards, let blood flow, spirit soar, watch enemies shatter on jagged cliffs beneath you. Just remember always to keep grinning, whether in the face of loss or at the cusp of winning, from end to beginning. Death should always come smiling, lest the blow falter and the wound be left to fester.

Here Jester, my little girl blue, strong-arm, quick-finger, smile-bringer, ear-ringer. Paint the town red, have them wet the bed, lose their head, show them what it is to live, a god who knows how to give. Choose nothing yet do all, speak the same words to prince and pauper, place truth in falsehood and lace lies with honesty. Only together do the brothers weave a tapestry of meaning, made only richer when you pull back the cord.

There Fjord, the drowned one, fork-tongue, cold-blood, sold soul. It is hard to say what he sees or what he seems. Old boys with older pacts may know all or nothing and there is little difference at the bottom of it. Is this he or just one of many faces? It is hard to remember, harder to see, hardest to say, but that’s what makes the game. From law-man to raider, mortals are a fickle lot.

And Nott, our little friend green, loose-lip, gold-heart, spot-liver, jag-tooth. An exquisite see-saw of sin and virtue, a past rife with pain, a future with less to lose and more to gain. Let her orbit you like a moon, let her gravity pull shining pebbles from unsuspecting shores. Your faithful furry friend will keep her mind occupied, oh yes, a second heart to drum the beat, pair of eyes to reflect the gleam, claws to pull at the seam.

Lastly your majesty, bore of bores, my good old Caleb. Worry-wart, beggar-prince, ever-drifter, sour-smeller. Don’t let past sorrows steer you this day, simply float down the river my raindrops lay. Just think, if two is better than one, how good is what I have brought to you. We have all manner of mystery, tragedy, comedy ahead, a forest of paths trodden and untrodden to tread and untread. My joker and straight-man brought together at last, the death of one circus marking the birth of another. Sail this ship of fools, Caleb, show me what laughs lie in wait, pull these seven strings hanging loose from the weave of fate, blowing ragged down the road. Oh, those poor gods in their cages don’t know what beauty holds this world they’ve never traveled. The strings aren’t there to be woven fast, they’re there to play the music.

Yes, Caleb? A sparrow to spy them? But of course, mighty wizard, your wish is my command. A night-blind bird that you may freely stare unseeing at the toad and his little friend. All good plans come apart at conception. Oh, but what fun I foresee and tell, I can hardly hold it in. What a good and seemly thing that cats are ever smiling.


End file.
